


Moonlight Cocktail

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [12]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: Rissy pops a fat raspberry into Nix’s mouth, then she takes a finger-full of whipped cream…and draws it across his nose and chin. He kisses her, covering both their faces in sweet, white streaks.“Iamvery charming,” he deadpans in agreement once he breaks the kiss. Whipped cream is smeared all through his stubble. Rissy sees the spark in his eyes, but she is not quick enough to escape his retaliation. There’s a playful scuffle in the kitchen, which results in a mess. Smashed raspberries dot the floor and their faces and arms, and any piece of bare skin is now sticky with whipped cream and spilled lemonade. Inevitably, Nix and Rissy ended up tangled together on the hardwood floor. His mouth is insistent on her lips and throat. He starts to move against her, wanting more, and that’s when she pushes him away and gets to her feet.Her hair is wet, pink splotches and clots of berry stain her shirt. Rissy turns on her heel and stalks away, but he can hear the laughter she’s trying to suppress from the hall; he knows she’s teasing, just playing a game. Nix lounges on the floor and grins; she likes it and he knows it, no matter how irritated she acts, she’d lay herself at his feet and revel in it.





	Moonlight Cocktail

When the baby was almost two and a half years old, Nix told Rissy that they’d put their honeymoon off long enough. Their sweet little boy was packed off to his Auntie Hazel’s house, the house his mother grew up in. It’s still filled with light and love and laughter, and the smell of cows still hangs in the air. The refrigerator is always full of fresh milk, butter, and cheese, much as it always was.

For two nights, Nix and Rissy slept in her childhood bedroom in her childhood home. She teased him about it, too, laughing to see Lewis Nixon III staying in a farmhouse. He swatted at her and she told him he should just be thankful that her old twin bed had been swapped out for a bigger one. The third night, the last night before Nix and his bride were scheduled to leave, they slept on the back porch, wrapped up in layers of blankets because it was a hair too cold to be sleeping outside. Their small son was wedged between them on the old fold-out sofa, under a quilt that Rissy’s mother had stitched together. Richie cried in the morning when his mother and his father kissed him good-bye.

Rissy cried, too, on the way to Chicago O’Hare. She’d never been so far from her son, and never for so long. Nix put his arm around her and held her in the backseat of the taxicab. She did not cry in the airplane, but her knuckles were white on the armrest. Nix held her hand and ordered her a sloe gin fizz. She was much calmer on the second leg of their journey, and dozing lightly when they landed in Charlotte Amalie.

There was a rented car waiting to take them to the rented house. Nix made the arrangements, saying he wanted a something right on the beach, lots of windows, but private. He got a fat manila envelope from the travel agent in the mail, stuffed with photographs and descriptions. He and Rissy picked the one they liked best. It was just a little place, two bedrooms, kitchen, front room, and a bath, but it had a wide porch with a charcoal grill, an outdoor shower, and a private beach.

* * *

 

Nix steers the car up the narrow drive. Trees crowd either side, disguising the entrance and creating a whispering green canopy that shades the car. The little house itself is spic-and-span with spotless hardwood floors. Dishes and drinkware are neatly stowed in glass paneled cabinets, fresh sheets and towels fill the linen closet, and white curtains float on the breeze from thrown-open windows.

Nix brings the bags up the steps, past the pale pink hibiscus that trembles in the warm breeze. He swears at Rissy’s huge suitcase when it barks his shins. She likes to have choices, she says; Nix thinks she just can’t make up her mind, so she crams everything she can fit into a suitcase that’s at least twice as big as his. He puts it all in the larger of the bedrooms and then he’s off to find his wife.

This isn’t hard, as she’s left a trail behind her. Shoes first, and limp stockings a little further down the hall, and finally her dress slung over the back of a kitchen chair. The girl herself is at the back door in her slip. She’s just looking, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.

“I didn’t know it could be so _blue_ , Lew,” she whispers in an awed voice.

Nix has seen it, of course. She’s seen the ocean, but it was grey and churning, not an impossibly deep blue set in a tropical paradise. Travel was always just part of his life and he never really thought about it. He usually had a good time, but it’s so much more fun to see Rissy like this, to share all this with her, to share everything with her really.

There’s fruit on the table and a couple bottles of red wine on the counter, a bottle of champagne chilling in the otherwise empty fridge.

“We should go to the store,” he says, but she can’t tear her eyes off the view. “We’ll go get some groceries and then I’ll take you to dinner.”

“Shouldn’t we eat first?” She hasn’t even turned to look at him, he grins to see the wonder on her face.

“It’ll take forever. The store’ll be closed by the time we’re done.”

“Okay.”

That’s what they do first, buy just enough from the grubby grocer’s to last for the next day or two. Nix runs the bags back to the kitchen alone, knowing he’d have to drag Rissy off the beach if she gets out of the car. He takes her out for supper, lobster and crème brûlée. The restaurant is right on the water; they eat on a patio overhanging the ocean. The sun sets and the moon rises; the stars come out. When he meal is over, he leads her down onto the sand. Nix takes a seat on an empty beach chair and looks on in amusement as Rissy wades in the ocean. She couldn’t wait any longer and he didn’t see any reason to stop her. It’s long past dark when they get back.

She’s tired, drowsing against his shoulder. It strikes Nix for maybe the millionth time how she trusts him without question. He parks and comes around quickly, undoes her seatbelt and scoops her up. Rissy’s arms come around his neck and she giggles tipsily, a tired casualty of travel and deceptively sweet cocktails. He undresses her down to her panties, trailing kisses as he goes. But they are both tired, so he only climbs under the sheets to lie down beside her.

They fall asleep with the windows open and the ocean in their ears.

* * *

 

Nix had told Rissy that she deserved a month, told her the story of honey moon and honey mead, and when she balked at that, he told her that he wanted her all to himself for a month, or for forever. She agreed to the month.

They stay out late and sleep in later. Rissy’d make brunch, and Lew would take her to supper, or grill steaks for them both. Because they _are_ Nixons, someone comes in to clean twice a week, but Rissy wants to do the cooking and the shopping herself.

In the evenings, they listen to the radio and sometimes they dance. Nix drinks his whiskey on the back porch or in a lounge chair on the beach; Rissy still steals tiny sips, even though she has a cocktail of her own. She discovers that she favors Hemingway daquiris, and then she moves on to Death in the Afternoons. Nix teases her about her literary cocktails and she sticks her tongue out at him. She tries absinthe, telling Nix that it’s the next logical step.

The irony is that even though she brought the huge suitcase, for the most part she wears the same few things. Shorts and a blouse at the house, sundresses to dinner, her sandals. She has the bathing suit she wears at the public beach and the one she wears when they’re alone. She’s wearing that on the absinthe night. Nix let out a wolf whistle the first time he saw her in it. Red with white polka dots, halter top and a wide strip of naked belly and the bottoms that just cover her navel.

The absinthe night, they’re tangled together on the chair, happily drunk. Nix suddenly presses his mouth on hers in a messy kiss. They’re almost halfway through their honeymoon. He unties the knot behind her neck, finds the clasp at her back, and then her breasts are bare. Her nipples taste like the salt that’s dried on her skin. They almost don’t make it inside. From that night on, when they spend the evening on their secluded beach, she ends up topless, but only at night and only after a cocktail or three.

A few nights later, Nix takes her out, proud of her in her peacock blue dress, proud of how pretty she is and of how she still looks at him like they’ve just been married a few weeks instead of nearly two years, or three, if you count what happened in a French church once upon a time. There’s dancing to a big band, which starts off acrobatic, with Nix slinging and catching her, and ends with her head on his shoulder and her arms around his neck. Dinner, dessert, dancing, drinks, taxi ride home. Neither Nix nor Rissy is any more than pleasantly tipsy.

Nix unlocks the door, fumbling with the key. He’s hot even in his cotton shirt and linen trousers. It’s cooler inside, he’d left the fan running and the windows open. He steps in the door and turns to say something or other to Rissy, but the words never leave his mouth because she throws herself into his arms and reaches to kiss him searchingly, nipping his bottom lip and giggling.

“I want you,” she whispers humidly in his ear.

There’s one lone lamp on in the room and her rich brown eyes shine up at him. Her nose wrinkles, puckish. She pulls the dress over her head, it’s silk; soft and richly colored, and it puddles on the floor at her feet. Her slip, stockings, garters, everything but her underwear. Nix starts to pull at his own clothes, she helps him when she’s down to her panties. They’re frothy white lace, appropriate for a honeymoon.

Nix reaches to touch her, to embrace her, but she steps away, turns. Rissy looks back over her shoulder and bends at the waist, pulling the insubstantial panties down to her ankles and kicking them away. Nix is about to pick her up and carry her to bed, but she dances away again. There’s a dark V between her legs; he touches himself and groans. It’s rather obvious that he wants her, too.

He reaches for her, and she laughs and turns to run through the front room, through the kitchen, and right out the door onto the sand. He follows, right out the door, across the sand still faintly warm from the sun, and into the ocean.

They end up far out enough that Rissy’s feet don’t touch the bottom, but Nix’s do so it’s still alright. She floats in the circle of his arms. There is touching and languid, liquid kissing, but that’s all, even when he pulls her closer and her thighs ride his hips. She’s buoyant, weightless; she doesn’t look twenty-eight and Nix does not feel almost thirty.

He kisses her until she’s the one asking for him, pressing at him. He carries her back to the shore, holding her up until they’re almost there and a wayward wave catches him off guard and knocks him over. Nix and Rissy land in the surf, naked and tangled together. He lurches up, carries her a bit further so they’re on the wet sand and their feet are still in the water.

It seems like it would be very romantic, making love on a tropical beach in the starlight. It is not. Rissy sighs in Nix’s arms, whispering encouragement until she squeals.

“Oh my God, stop--Oh Lew, shit, stop, no.” She scrambles out from under him gracelessly. “There’s sand in my--oh, ow.” She’s laughing and nearly crying and squinting at him. “Why did you do that?”

“Me? You’re the one who ran out here!”

“You had sand on your hands--”

“I’m sorry, honey.” He lifts her, carries her to the bathroom, and gently, gently, gently washes her as best he can. Nix is still naked and starting to get cold. He swathes a towel low around his hips. Rissy is laughing and crying all at once, and somehow still eying the hair that trails down Lew’s belly and disappears under the white towel.

In the morning, there is sand in the bed. Rissy throws the sheets in the wash and hangs them out to dry. That evening, she takes them back down so she and Nix can make the bed again. The cotton is slightly stiff, but it smells like salt and sunshine when they lift the sheet in the air and it wafts slowly back down to the bed. They both make hospital corners, neat and efficient. In the semi-dark, Rissy crawls across the bed towards her husband. She kneels up, cups his cheek lightly, there’s so much tenderness contained in that one small gesture.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he murmurs back, easing himself onto the mattress. “C’mere, lay down with me.” He waits until she’s settled in the crook of his arm, and they talk about everything and nothing while the shadows grow longer and the air cools. The words start to space out, punctuated by small yawns and sighs.

Nix wakes sometime before the sun even starts to rise. The lamp is still on. He turns it off, listens to the ocean and Rissy breathing. He and Rissy are still in their clothes, shorts and his undershirts since they never left the house. He stays awake for a while, Rissy’s warm legs over his and her hand on his belly, the other tucked under her cheek. Her chest rises and falls, gently in time with the ocean. The diamond at her throat is new, a classic solitaire, something she can wear for the rest of her life. It’s huge, colorless, but simple enough not to be overly ostentatious. They’d picked it out together and he put it around her neck. He kissed her nape, and then nipped at her in response to the way her head tipped forward and the small sound she made. The jewelry clerk studiously ignored this.

(What Rissy doesn’t know is that there’s a second piece of jewelry. He saw an opal, also colorless, like a huge drop of water. It’s filled with blue and green fire, the Atlantic caught in a single drop. He saw it and he knew it was perfect, she’ll love it; he only needs an occasion to give it to her. He had it set in platinum, in an open setting so it would look like a bead of water caught in the hollow of her throat.)

The next morning, Nix watches her in the dingy grocery store. She pours over fruit and vegetables, all the while absently playing with her pendant. The diamond is beautiful, she is gorgeous, but Nix still thinks the opal will suit her better than the diamond does. Rissy looks up at him and grins over punnets of raspberries when she catches him staring. She mouths three words and he mouths four back and he is very glad he bought the opal.

Back in their kitchen, Rissy makes lemonade, and then fried chicken and biscuits and corn on the cob for lunch. She smiles apologetically and wipes the back of her hand across her face, leaving a dusting of flour on her cheekbone. “It was only supposed to be sandwiches. I can’t help it. My mother was from the south.”

Lew adopts a drawl. “I had no idea, honey child. Tell me all about it, bless your heart.”

“You already know about all that, Lew.” She swats at him but she’s smiling. “She was the youngest, the baby and the only daughter. She had a mama and a daddy and two older brothers, and they lived just outside Charleston. They loved her so much, they gave her everything she wanted--and what she needed, too. It was a gilded cage, though. She was supposed to marry some lovely young man whose daddy knew her daddy, who’s grandpa knew her grandpa.”

“But she didn’t want to marry him?”

“Uh-uh. No, the story is that she was in a bookshop, buying a present for her niece. My daddy was there, and he asked her to help him pick out something to send to his sister. See, my mama was in Georgia, near Augusta--”

“Avoiding the young man?”

“Exactly. She didn’t want to marry him, but she didn’t know how to say no. It was all arranged, him asking her was only a formality and she was expected to say yes. Only she just couldn’t, so she was sent off to visit a cousin who was supposed to talk sense into her. Mama’s trip was supposed to be two weeks long, enough time to clear her head, but that turned into six. She didn’t want to leave my daddy, and then she knew she never wanted to leave him. There was no way she could marry anyone else. She went home, and he followed a few days later. He met her parents, and they forbid her to see him again, but only after he left. They were frigidly polite while he was there. She was a good girl--”

“Like her daughter.”

At this, Rissy shakes her head. “But she loved him, Lew. She was back home for less than three weeks. She wrote to him every day. She told her parents she was going to choir practice, but she got on a train instead, all the way back to Georgia. She was supposed to go on a walk with that lovely young man that night, but she ran away to my daddy instead. They were married within a month.”

“And they never forgave her.”

“No, not really. She didn’t care, though.” A worry crease appears briefly between her eyebrows.

“It’s not the same, honey. They weren’t happy with me before.”

“Then they’re blind. How anyone could not love you is beyond me.” Rissy pops a fat raspberry into Nix’s mouth, then she takes a finger-full of whipped cream…and draws it across his nose and chin. He kisses her, covering both their faces in sweet, white streaks.

“I _am_ very charming,” he deadpans in agreement once he breaks the kiss. Whipped cream is smeared all through his stubble. Rissy sees the spark in his eyes, but she is not quick enough to escape his retaliation. There’s a playful scuffle in the kitchen, which results in a mess. Smashed raspberries dot the floor and their faces and arms, and any piece of bare skin is now sticky with whipped cream and spilled lemonade. Inevitably, Nix and Rissy ended up tangled together on the hardwood floor. His mouth is insistent on her lips and throat. He starts to move against her, wanting more, and that’s when she pushes him away and gets to her feet.

Her hair is wet, pink splotches and clots of berry stain her shirt. Rissy turns on her heel and stalks away, but he can hear the laughter she’s trying to suppress from the hall; he knows she’s teasing, just playing a game. Nix lounges on the floor and grins; she likes it and he knows it, no matter how irritated she acts, she’d lay herself at his feet and revel in it. The shower comes on, Nix finally stands, pours himself a drink, and starts to put the kitchen to rights. Order is restored by the time she’s out of the shower. It wouldn’t do to have ants.

They share a lazy, affectionate afternoon. She reads to him in the hammock and eventually they both fall asleep, only waking when it starts to rain. The deluge is brief but intense. Nix is forced to coax a fire from the charcoal in the grill. After supper, they take a walk down the beach, wading hand-in-hand, pant legs rolled up, but not far enough for the cuffs to stay dry. He tries to find her a conch shell, there are so many of them, but they’re all still occupied. The conch peeks out of one, when Nix shows her the tiny black eyes on stalks, she’s charmed. She tells him it’s cute as she takes the seashell from his hands and places it gently back on the sand, under the salt water that is its home.

Finally, there is dessert; the berries and whipped cream that survived the afternoon, only the berries are soaked in rum and vanilla now. They wash the dishes together in the kitchen, music drifting from the radio. Funny how this can seem fun here, but it’s something they almost never do at home. Rissy is no longer a farm-girl.

The sunset paints that incredibly blue water red, orange, and yellow shot with gold. Together in an oversized chair, Nix’s mouth still tastes sweet. His lips slide against hers, he sucks her bottom lip between his. When it’s dark and the moon has risen, there’s a corona around it, hazy and beautiful. Rissy turns on his lap to speak right into his ear. “Do you want a drink, Lew?”

He nods and she reluctantly disentangles herself from him, and Nix keeps his hands on her until she’s out of reach. The screen door creaks when it swings shut. Nix can hear her in the kitchen, clink of glasses, ice cubes, cabinets opening and closing. There is no noise when the door opens, no footsteps, but she’s been barefoot whenever they’ve been at home. Her feet are bare, and her legs, and everything else is, too, when she delicately perches in his lap again.

“Here, dear.” He drinks, she sips. He touches the warm skin that’s turned the golden tan of caramelized sugar. He leaves kisses at the nape of her neck and at her shoulder blades. Rissy settles back against him. Nix trails a loving finger along her curves, cupping and teasing.

The glass at his elbow is sweating onto the tin tray. He dips his fingers into it. The ice is so cold it burns behind her ear, and the drops running down the back of her neck make her shiver. It's already growing smaller and somehow softer when he brings it to her breasts. There’s such a contrast between the warm pads of his fingers and the diminishing ice cube. It's hardly more than a sliver by the time it makes its journey down her belly and between her legs. After a while, it’s just his cold, wet fingers that soon become warmer and wetter. Rissy whimpers when he pulls his hand away from her. 

“Remember the first time I did this to you?” he whispers hotly at the nape of her neck. She doesn’t answer, only settles back further in his lap, pressing her bottom against the hardening line of his cock. Her mouth curls up, mischievous. Her feet swing, creating motion, and thus friction. She reaches back to touch him, and she lets out an appreciative sigh when her hand finds him. She murmurs her compliments and Nix’s hands start roaming again.

Rissy makes a small sound, something that's not a word, but Nix understands her anyway. She twists her neck to bring her lips to his. She tastes like limes and maraschino cherries, remnants of the daiquiri she’d made for herself. She sucks at his bottom lip, at his tongue, making him think of her mouth on something else. She's cradled in his arms, all that smooth bare skin, with his hands playing at delicate places, busy making her feel good. 

\--Rissy wonders for a moment why anyone can think this could be dirty, Lew _loves_ her, he wants to give her pleasure. It's private, certainly, but making love is nothing to be ashamed of--

He only breaks the kiss to bring his hand to his own mouth. She makes another little sound, all supplication and surrender, she wants his mouth on hers.

Rissy offers no resistance when he picks her up and sets her on the railing. He is careful, he doesn’t want her to get splinters in her ass. He’s still careful when he spreads her knees and kneels between them to place damp kisses to her inner thighs, to nip at her with the barest trace of his teeth. He smiles into her when he feels her hips strain towards him. 

“You tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I'll do it.” 

He reaches up to play with her nipple, stretching it, then his thumbnail pressing into the tip. He leaves the other one alone, in agony to be touched.

He presses his face to her, kissing and licking, his tongue gathering her wetness. He stops just short of what he knows she wants.  “Tell me or no more,” he murmurs in a hoarse whisper.

“Lew, please. Just don’t stop, please.”

“That’s good enough for me.” The words come out as a low growl that makes Rissy shiver.

He hums against her and spreads her legs as wide as he can. His lips and his nose are pressed to her, his tongue moves across the opening before it darts inside. It’s so dark, no one would be able see them if anyone was there, no one would see Nix with his face between her open thighs, but they’d hear his sounds and hers too. His mind flashes to the hibiscus, how the petals trembled in air currents he could hardly feel on his skin.

She’s begging above him, just please interspersed with his name. No one has ever said his name the way she does. 

He replaces his tongue with his fingers, stroking her inside, flicking at her, licking in broad strokes, finally sucking. His face is wet and her fingers curl in his hair. She screams his name out so loudly that birds take flight, the dusty beating of wings fills the air. Their shared laughter is liquid, a promise of things yet to come.

Rissy gets up and starts to sink to her knees, and for a moment Nix thinks she’s jelly-legged, but, no, it’s deliberate on her part. She finds his cock--not a difficult job considering the state he’s in--cupping him through linen and cotton, and then finding buckles and buttons and his zipper. Nix leans back against the railing, head bowed and watching her, a darker shadow against shadows. He can’t quite see what she’s doing--the moon lights up the beach, but the porch is surrounded by foliage thick enough to filter out most of the light--but he knows well enough. Rissy’s nose is in his pubic hair, and then her mouth runs the length of his cock; her tongue flicks at the spot right under the ridge. Nix inhales sharply, groans, and groans again when her tongue finds the tiny opening. She sits back on her knees and his hips reflexively move toward her. He can feel his cock bob and he makes his own mewling sound.

“Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “I’ll do what you want. I want you to feel good, Lew, I want to do my very best.” Her hand grasps him loosely and she brings her face between his legs. Her lips and tongue lave over his balls. He reaches to cup her breast; her nipple is hard. And finally, she takes his cock in her mouth, licking and sucking at the head and them easing him down her throat until her nose is buried in his wiry hair. Gently, she moves his hand from her chest so that he’s cupping the back of her head.

Rissy’s mouth is warm and wet, her small sounds vibrate against him. She clutches at his hips and his ass, and then one finger moves between his cheeks, presses there, is gone. Her finger is between her own legs, inside her and then back at him, wet and slick, and pressing and then pushing into his body in tiny increments. Nix lets out a strangled sigh, relaxes into the intrusion, welcoming it. This is something that she’s never done before. It feels good enough that he whines when her finger withdraws, but then her face is between his legs again, she mouths at him, kissing and touching whatever she can reach. He lets out a loud cry, unintelligible since he can’t form words. Rissy’s hands clutch at his hips, biting into sensitive skin and Nix touches his own cock. His breathing is harsh in his own ears, and he’s startled when Rissy moans aloud and bows her head against his leg. She’s trembling, swallowing hard.

“Come lay down.” Her voice is hoarse. He can feel her chest heaving, her breasts against his thigh. “I need you inside me, Lew. I can’t--I can’t wait anymore.”

He eases down onto the wooden porch and reaches for her in the fragrant dark. “Oh, fuck, honey--” he stops talking when something occurs to him. “Did you just come?”

Rissy shrugs, faintly embarrasses and not looking at him even in the dark. “Couldn’t help it.” She’s still crouched in front of him. He can see the whites of her eyes and a suggestion of her lips and jaw.

 The pile of neatly folded striped towels beneath him smells of fresh air and sunshine. Nix sprawls out on his back and Rissy moves over him, but from behind, moving to lick at his cock again her legs open above his face. He understands; she wants him badly but she’s feeding her own desperation. When he’s finally inside her, it will be explosive. He touches her, doing nothing more than teasing.

“I wasn’t even touching you.”

“I know. You were just so--” Her voice hitches when he finds the stiff knot between her legs.

At long last, Rissy moves to face him. She takes his cock in her hand and runs it over herself before she guides him in. Nix’s open-mouthed groan is only marginally quieter than her own. Rissy trembles and sighs as she grinds against him. She moves above him, leaving his hands free to do what they will. Her poor nipple must be sore; the other must be aching to be touched.

“You were full of ideas tonight, Rissy.” He likes to talk during, sometimes. Tonight his voice is hoarse and unsteady.

“It feels good when you touch me there,” she whispers. “I-I thought you might like it, too.” The pads of his fingers find her again, grazing then grasping in what is almost a pinch. “Did-did it feel good?”

“Yeah.” She moves, angling her breasts towards his face. He smirks, she wants the ignored nipple in his mouth. He teases, brushes it with his lips while they rock together.

“Did you like it when I--when I--?“

He grins in the dark. She’ll do it enthusiastically, but she doesn’t want to put what she did in words. That’s okay. “Yeah, I did, sweetheart. You’ve been a very good girl tonight.” His hand pulses on her with each word and she writhes; Nix is struggling to keep in control of himself, too. “Tell me what you want from me and I’ll do it, honey, but you have to ask.”

“This one, too, please. Please, Lew.” She brings the as hereto ignored breast as close to his lips as she can. Her hips move and she squeezes around him. He opens his mouth, but turns his head a the last second so he catches the tender one. He nips at it, more with his lips than with his teeth, sucks hard. He’s stiff inside her, one hand working between her legs, the other caressing her flank, and she’s moving over him. Finally, he turns his attention to the other breast, kissing the nipple and then drawing it between his lips and teeth, suckling roughly while his thumb nearly grinds into her.

Rissy keens long and high; Nix can feel her muscles fluttering around him; he arches upward, grunting, crying out. When it’s over, Rissy collapses on him and they’re both sated.

She rolls off him to lay against his side. Heat radiates from her skin. Nix moves, adjusts himself to pillow his head in her lap--is it still a lap if you’re lying down? He kisses her above the hair between her legs, lazily spreads her open, laughing a little at the gasp that results from his touch on over-sensitive skin.

“No more. Please no more. It’s too much,” she pleads, but she doesn’t move away from him at all.

He doesn’t listen, instead he separates the swollen folds. His fingers are gentle, slow; Rissy sighs in utter content. Nix kisses her tender and overly-sensitive knot with soft, full lips, kisses it again, just brushing his mouth there over and again until she has a final, tiny orgasm.

He kisses her hip and gently pushes her thighs together. “I love you, Rissy.” She sighs that she loves him, too, and they breathe together in the dark, listening to the sea and to far-away voices. His cheek is pressed to her and she is naked. Nix barely managed to extricate himself from his trousers and underwear, although he clothes he still has on are rumpled. His shirt is rucked up almost to his arm pits. It’s unflattering, but at least he isn’t wearing socks.

When she can, Rissy sits up shakily and drains the dregs from her glass. “That’s it for a few days,” she sighs. “Unless you want a new, little Nixon.”

“Would that really be the worst thing in the world?” Nix replies, lighting his cigarette. He groans and stretches, reaching to bracelet her ankle and find a pulse there, steady and slow.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

She moves to kiss his face, to the right of his mouth. Nix turns his head to give her his lips instead. It’s the least he can do, to kiss her, afterwards.

“Thank you.”

“For what, kitten?”

“Everything. You let me be the way I am.”

“I love the way you are.” Nix gets to his feet and pads to the back door. He likes the way the sandy wooden boards feel under his bare feet. He reaches inside the door and flips the switch; the porch is illuminated in mellow light. Rissy is naked and cross-legged; her face is flushed and her hair is a mess. She looks at him and laughs, although not unkindly. He looks down at himself, stripped bare from the waist down with his spent cock hanging below the hem of his shirt. She laughs and he laughs, too, raking a hand through his dark hair that’s run riot.

“Oh, I’ll have to wash the towels again,” she sighs.

“We should probably get cleaned up, too.”

Rissy stretches. Her hair is longer than it was, almost down to her backside. “That would be so much effort, Lew.”

“No, it won’t be.” He pulls the shirt over his head and leans to help her up. Nix leads her down the steps and into the salt water. They swim a little, not too far out, just enough to wash away sweat and fluid. He carries her back to the porch piggyback with her arms clasped around his neck.

* * *

 

They go to the beach, their private one and various public ones, too. They tour ruins and botanical gardens and the other islands. They sample rum and Rissy drinks entirely too many sweet, icy cocktails. In between all that, they fall into bed every chance they get.  The rest of their month flies by.

Rissy and Nix pack everything up, jamming clothing and gifts into their suitcases. Rissy has to sit on them so Nix can snap them shut. The flight from Charlotte Amalie to Miami leaves Rissy more miserable than the flight out. She is sick, embarrassed to vomit in front of Nix, even after all this time. She fills her airsickness bag and wrinkles her nose. The stewardess whisks it away, Nix asks her for a glass of water. The water helps. It’s cool and clear and more than half ice, the way Rissy always wants it when she doesn’t feel well.

“I don’t understand; it wasn’t that bad.” She looks a bit pale, not feverish. Nix thinks it might be a combination of nerves and heat.

“It’s hot. You’ve had a lot of sun.” He puts a hand to her forehead.

Rissy nods and sips at her water. She doesn’t vomit again. Not until they’re off the plane, anyway.

She doesn’t want to fly anymore.

“What if we just drive? Take a couple days?”

He never could resist her when her eyes were wide and pleading. This is something that Rissy tried not to take advantage of, too much. Nix rents a big boat of a car, and this is better. They can stop, roll the windows down and get big lungfuls of fresh air, or turn the air conditioning on so high that Nix gets uncomfortably cold.

Rissy still isn’t feeling well, not even when they get back to Illinois, not even when Richie throws his sturdy little body into her arms. They drive all the way back home, staying at little places along the way. Nix notices she’s not eating, not really. Her diet consists mostly of fruit, ice cream, and ginger ale.

It’s late when they finally get home. They headlights sweep the front of the house where Nix carried Rissy over the thresh-hold. It’s a very welcome sight. Nix unlocks the door and Rissy carries Richie’s inert body up the stairs to put him in his own bed. Nix busies himself locking the door and rifling through the mail. When he goes upstairs himself, he can hear his wife retching in their bathroom. This has lasted too long; he’s worried, at least until he opens the door to find her counting on her fingers.

“Oh.” A smile plays around his lips.

“I think so.”

“That didn’t take long.”

Rissy shakes her head slowly; the corners of her lips fold up and her dimples come out.

“Go to the doctor, honey.” He kisses her temple, his fingers find a tender nipple. He wonders if her breasts already seem a bit bigger or if he’s only imagining it. His hand drops to caress her belly lovingly. “Come to bed. Let me love you, cute girl.”

Rissy goes to bed and Nix loves her and she calls her doctor in the morning.

* * *

 

The phone rings a few days later. She answers and when Rissy gets up her eyes are shining and she’s biting her bottom lip. When Nix comes in the door, home from work, she’s waiting. It’s pleasantly cool inside and sounds from a children’s program on the brand-new television are muffled from the back room.

This time, standing in front of him, she’s not scared. She doesn’t have to be anything but happy. Rissy just gives Nix a small smile. He drops his hat on the half-moon table and swings her around in a wide circle, kissing her.

“Oh-oh, stop Lew. Oh-put me down.”

She looks a little green around the edges.

“Sorry, honey, sorry.” He sets her back on the floor gently, but his hands stay on her.

“Don’t be, Lew.”

“I have something for you.” He goes up the stairs and she can hear him ruffling through drawers, but he’s back in a less than a minute with a small box in hand. He pulls her into the front room by the hand, sits in _fauteuil confortable_ and brings her into his lap.

As he guessed she would be, she’s charmed.

“It’s an opal,” he tells her. It looks like a drop of water suspended at her throat.

“It’s gorgeous, Lew.” She turns it this way and that in her slim fingers, watching the colors play. “It looks like something for a mermaid.”

“That which you are, you are.” He thinks of her in the water. Rissy in the rain, the shower or the bath, the swimming pool, the lake, the ocean, and once upon a time in a clear natural pool under the stars. She just might be a mermaid, and if she was, she wouldn’t be luring anyone to his death (well, yes, but only the sweetest kind, what the French call _le petit mort_ , and only Nix), no she’d pull a drowning man from the sea and onto warm, white sand.


End file.
